Beyond the walls
of white marble a noble company was gathered that summer day. There
were the hostess and her daughter; three young noblemen, the purple
stripes on each angusticlave telling of knightly rank; a Jewish prince
in purple and gold; an old philosopher, and a poet who had been reading
love lines. It was the age of pagan chivalry, and one might imperil
his future with poor wit or a faulty epigram. Those older men had long
held the floor, and their hostess, seeking to rally the young knights,
challenged their skill in courtly compliment.
"O men, who have forgotten the love of women these days, look at her!"
So spoke the Lady Lucia--she that was widow of the Praefect Publius,
who fell with half his cohort in the desert wars.
She had risen from a chair of ebony enriched by cunning Etruscan
art--four mounted knights charging across its heavy back in armor of
wrought gold. She stopped, facing the company, between two columns of
white marble beautifully sculptured. Upon each a vine rose, limberly
and with soft leaves in the stone, from base to capital.
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